


Don't Try to Explain

by writingramblr



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Caught in the Act, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Learning Magic, Credence crying, Daddy Kink, Insomnia, M/M, Masturbation, Muteness, Mutual Pining, Oops, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pseudo-Incest, mild sugar daddying, mute!Graves, no shushing because graves cannot speak, referenced violence but not explicit, this is pure self indulgent nonsense weeeeeeee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 03:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11050254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/pseuds/writingramblr
Summary: Graves has lost his voice and Credence has lost a lot of his memories.Together though, they can heal each other.





	Don't Try to Explain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kallistob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/gifts).



> for the one and only fantastic-beasts-smut, here's me, smearing gradence all over every idea everyone has ever had.
> 
>  
> 
> this isnt quite as brutal a vision, like, no knives ever went in Percy's mouth but something else of Grindelwald's may have... idk...

At first, he thought it was just another one of Grindelwald’s cruel tricks, as he blinked wetness from his eyes, he then realized what had mingled with his tears, the roof was gone. It had rained on his face.

He sat up at once, and the location of his prison became fully obvious. He’s been locked inside his greenhouse. The Graves estate, now solely his, had been Grindelwald’s playground for the last three weeks. He felt revulsion crawl up his throat, and he scrambled to get outside before the nausea hit, barely making it before bile burned his tongue.

Something else hurt. It felt... off.

Graves tried to murmur a spell to clean the dirt and grime off his skin, but no sounds came out, though his magic did try to work. He had been half buried alive, only pulled from the charmed potted planter, returned to his normal self upon… what? 

Why had Grindelwald’s trap freed him?

Something had broken the man’s power, severed the connection. Graves knew he shouldn’t care so much, but he did. He was furious.

He had woken up alone at his second home, and his voice was gone.

This was a different kind of torture, he decided, a final stab at his dignity, his pride, the fact that Grindelwald had taken something so integral to his character, left him lost and unmoored at sea, with no sails or compass. He had become utterly fucked.

It was just lucky that disapparating didn’t require a spoken spell and never had, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to travel in his weakened state. In the end, seconds before trying it, he changed his mind. He didn’t need to hurt himself worse, on the way to MACUSA, there was no need to collapse in a heap outside the building and scar dozens of no-majs for life.

He grabbed a fistful of floo powder, only to let it sift out of his fingers in horror.

He can’t do that either.

He needed to send a patronus.

Or order a portkey.

In the end, he went with no-maj transportation, in disguise, spitting mad the entire way, clutching his shaky hands around his fresh clothing and clean jacket, desperately missing his wand. All he had now was more money he knew what to do with and a clear purpose.

The conversion rate between no-maj and regular money was obscene yes, but it sure came in handy. Graves got off the train and took a taxi to the city, ignoring the way the cabbie’s eyes widened at the sight of the stack of cash he carelessly handed over. He doesn’t care.

What he  _ does _ care about was the sight of the wreckage that was sitting where the Second Salemite church used to be, right there, in the open, no wizard or witch in sight to cast charms to hide it. The rubble made it look like a bomb had gone off at the very back of the church, with the whole second floor collapsed, as if it had never existed.

His throat went dry and he had the sudden fear that Credence might have been caught up in there, so he propelled forward, distracted, and casting mindless  _ hominum revellio _ as well as shielding charms to keep himself hidden and safe from passersby on the street.

There was nothing and no one there. He wasn’t sure if it was relief or sadness. He couldn’t grieve until he  _ knew _ if the boy was okay.

Or ran across his obituary.

He swiped a hand down his face, and felt the rasp of stubble he’d missed, shaving with his unsteady hands. It was still raining, even this far from the countryside, and he wondered if somehow the weather had followed him, sensing his mood, choosing to prolong his melancholy. He kept walking, telling himself he wasn’t going to check every alleyway, he couldn’t, he needed to report back to MACUSA and figure out what the hell was wrong with him, and find out what had happened to Grindelwald.

He did anyway.

Walking up to the building, he wondered what the danger level was at, and how it would climb at the sight of him, so he grimly smiled, and stepped forward, crossing the shield threshold, waiting to be stunned.

Instead, there was no opposition, he walked through the double doors, and though the alarm was ringing, he found no army of Aurors waiting for him, no, but there were people mulling about, and the first one he recognized had a head of dark hair, and sad eyes.

“Goldstein… is that…”

Seraphina’s voice met his ears, and he glanced over to see her at the back, wearing very understated attire, he could have passed her on the street and not known her. It had been far too long.

“Percy… you’re alive?”

He held up his hands, and sighed, as if to say, ‘Obviously,’ but no words would form on his tongue, and his voice remained silent.

“What’s wrong? Can’t you speak?”

He was surrounded now, and he wondered how many more moments of consciousness he had before he was pelted with stunners _. _

“Madam President, he doesn’t look well.”

“Can someone fetch a pen and paper?”

Seraphina ordered, and then he was being ushered to a room, a less harsh version of his former prison, but far from the warmth of his office. 

He remained there for several hours, and by the end of it, felt more like breaking something over both their heads, though Goldstein was much less responsible for any of his injuries. The President had been fooled by Grindelwald for nine days, and that, Graves would not easily forget.

“You can spend the night in the Montgomery infirmary. They’re the best on the east coast, you know this Percy-” he made a choked sound in his throat, and she sighed, “Percival. Sorry. I know you’re angry with me, but the fact of the matter is,  _ we’ve _ got him, thanks to you. After all, you may not know it, but-”

 

_ I don’t want to hear it. _

 

He cut her off as best he could with a quick scribble, and then stood up from the table abruptly, intent on taking his leave, unless she told him otherwise, but to his surprise, she waved the Auror and Goldstein aside,

“Let him go.”

“But Madam President… how do we know it’s him?”

Seraphina rolled her eyes and echoed his thoughts.

“If he wasn’t the real thing, not to mention hurt, he’d have killed us all by now.”

_ I still might _ .

He thought to himself angrily, right at her, because he  _ knew _ she was listening.

She didn’t react even if she caught the thought, and he stalked away, intent on seeing if his wand was done being vetted.

Goldstein followed him away from the interrogation room, and he wondered what she possibly had to say to him that she didn’t want to mention in front of the President.

“Mister Graves, sir, I’m very sorry. I should have known it wasn’t you, before. I know you would never sentence me to be executed without a trial.”

Graves stopped in his tracks, staring at her, jaw going slack.

What?

“She didn’t want to bring that up, I think, because she’s a bit embarrassed, if I may say so. Now your wand isn’t downstairs. I have it. I won it from… him. I think it’ll be okay, but you should probably test it for a few days, and try not to do anything major, like apparition or anything.”

He gave her a look, his own version of  _ No shit, _ and it seemed to get the message across.

“As far as we can tell, he never went into your apartment. It’s safe. Clean. Well, except for some dust perhaps. So…”

She trailed off, and he felt as awkward as she looked, before she remembered, and handed over his wand, pulled from the sheath in her jacket. The silver inlay gleamed at him, and the black ebony was still shining. When he touched it, warmth flooded over his skin, instead of a cold dullness which he’d expected. His wand wasn’t rejecting him, it was  _ returned _ to him. Finally, something had gone right. He looked up, and found her smiling at him, eyes sparkling with tears, putting him on the verge of them himself.

“Okay. Sorry. Uh. You’re good to go. To the wards that is. Hopefully they can figure out what’s wrong with your voice.”

Graves suspected it would be fairly obvious.

It was simply gone. Hexed out of him and strangled by multiple uses of the cruciatus curse. There wasn’t anything to heal, or be fixed.

The nurse and healer who looked him over said the same thing, and he just nodded. 

Things they could fix included, two broken ribs, a severe cut on his shoulder, and then the burn scar on his abdomen. He was grateful he couldn’t speak for that one, he did not want to relive that night.

They signed off on his bill of health after three hours, and the rain had stopped by the time he left the wards, on foot, to return to his brownstone, prescribed two weeks strict bed rest, with pay, by order of the President. He didn’t argue, and he couldn’t anyway. He just plucked the piece of paper out of the healer's hand and stuffed it in his coat pocket, grumbling as best he could. 

He’s twirling his wand carefully, standing just outside the front door of his building, when he hears it. 

It could have just been the wind, or a feral cat, but the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and Graves casts a shield charm before even daring to turn around. 

There.

Under a streetlamp, where the light should pool on the cobblestones, instead, lay only darkness. It shouldn’t be possible. Like the ground was swallowing up the light, and spitting out black inky smoke instead. He frowns, and steps closer, hoisting his wand high, trying in vain to illuminate the spot.

He cannot speak to ask what magic that it was, but that he knows, it  _ was _ magic, and it was something he had not heard of, or been spoken about for in a long time. Obscuri.

Red flashes among the charcoal dark, and Graves swallowed, wondering if he should send for help, or fire off a Patronus, until something happened, and white light exploded from the ground up, a blinding beacon that made him turn away for a moment, unable to stare into a supernova without hissing in pain.

When the spots left his vision, he turned back to the ground, and his heart stopped beating for a moment at the sight. 

He automatically shed his coat to hand it over, and placed it around the bare shoulders, to hide some of the exposed skin. 

“Sir, where am I? Who are you?”

Graves sighed. Of course the obvious questions he can’t answer come up first, and here he was, prepared for Credence to explain exactly how long he’d been host to an Obscurial and why he’d never noticed it.

Because he was a fucking idiot, apparently.

When it came to the boy right in front of him, Graves seemed to lose all good sense and just did what seemed right, even if he might have been bending the laws before, now, he was in the clear for good, not to mention, bowled over with gladness to see Credence alive.

It was just an added bonus, and torture, he’d appeared like this, naked, shivering, and highly confused about what had happened. 

The silence stretched on between them, with Credence murmuring things to himself, and hugging Graves’ coat around his body so hard his knuckles went white, 

“You’re a witch!”

Graves startled at the sudden volume from the boy, and he realized the wards must have analyzed his threat level before glowing green around him, and letting them both pass into the building, then up a set of stairs, leading to his floor. He didn’t bother to correct Credence’s half correct statement, and instead ushered him inside his apartment, setting up a few more extra wards and things, just praying that his magic would manifest properly, and not accidentally kick him or the boy out.

“You’re him aren’t you? You’re the one who scared ma so bad… she always said I was the son of a witch. I thought she meant my mother. But I killed her. Now I’ve killed them both.”

Credence’s bottom lip quivered, and tears spilled over his cheeks before Graves could get to his side, to pull him into a hug. It was all he could think of to do, but his mind was still catching up to what the boy had said. 

Son of a witch. Dead mother.

Graves’ blood drained from his face as he added things up, and his hand froze as it cupped against the back of the boy’s head, nestling him into his shoulder. Credence’s tears soaked through Graves’ shirt within minutes, but he didn’t move away.

“Why won’t you speak to me Father? Please, tell me you don’t hate me too…”

Graves went from being white a sheet to burning up with a fever, and he tried to extricate himself as gently as possible to summon a paper and pencil, scribbling down as much as he could. 

He tapped the boy’s shoulder and held it out, pointing insistently at the important line.

 

_ I’m mute. I was in an accident. I’m not a witch, I’m a wizard. Ladies are witches. I don’t hate you, I could never hate you. _

 

He just forgot one thing.

He realized it a split second after the boy pulled back and beamed up at him.

“Oh… thank you. I’m sorry, it’s just been… a horrible day. Forgive me Father.”

It took him a moment before he understood the boy wasn’t praying, he was addressing  _ him _ as his Father,  _ again _ .

He shuddered through a sigh, and picked up the pencil, only to set it back down again, and consider his options. Would it really be so bad to let the boy think he had some shred of family left? The accident that had destroyed the church claimed his adoptive mother, horrible as she was, and his sisters, it seemed, so he had no one, and nothing to his name.

Graves decided he’d let it slide, until it became absolutely unbearable.

Credence didn’t quite wear his same size, but putting the boy in his clothing was certainly better than the alternative, the idea of which made his collar itchy and his forehead would begin to sweat just thinking about it, so he didn’t. He made the shirts work by buttoning them all the way up, and tucking them into the pants, with a pair of old suspenders, from his days at Ilvermorny, so that the boy wouldn’t need to wear a belt, which he remembered quite plainly had been a major source of grief for him before. 

Graves never let himself imagine Credence out of his clothing.

Much. 

Except late at night, when he couldn’t fall asleep, unless he gave in and did it, took out his frustrations on himself. 

His nightly habit became routine, and he knew it would have been perfectly normal, if he hadn’t been imagining Credence every damned time. He had given the boy a few books to read, and told him to come to him if he had any questions and he’d answer to the best of his ability.

Questions, oh, the boy had many, he could almost see it in the way Credence approached him every time, practically vibrating with curiosity about his new world, his new reality. Even as Graves had to find himself adapting to life without a voice, and performing magic in his new capacity, the boy managed to distract him just enough and remind him that things weren’t so bad. He had a dutiful and clever and gorgeous adopted son.

Well. 

Sort of.

One night Credence was sitting on the couch, going on about how he’d learned that originally one spell was used to do this and that, and it was good he’d not returned to himself with any scars, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to heal them properly, and  _ that _ more than anything caught Graves’ attention. He summoned his pad and pencil and wrote down a series of questions before getting to his feet and going over to hand it to Credence. The boy took the paper and read it slowly, before swallowing and looking up at him, dark liquid eyes blinking, before dropping back to the floor. He always seemed to prefer to address the carpet rather than Graves directly. As if he intimidated the boy. He certainly didn’t mean to. Controlling his own feelings upon the matter of their… relationship had become his only problem. The issue of when he would go back to work was another problem, looming off in the distance, to be taken care of when it was time.

“My… ma, used to beat me. She beat all of us, but she seemed to hate me the most. Because of my witch ancestry. You.”

Graves sighed and pressed his lips together, ignoring the strong urge to correct the boy in favor of tapping hard against the next question. It was far too important.

“No. I don’t have any other scars. She, usually only hit my back and my hands. As you can see, it’s okay.”

Credence held up his palms and Graves instantly took one, caressing the silky smooth skin, and flipping it over, rubbing his thumb atop the boy’s knuckles, treasuring the strangled gasp that escaped his lips.

His plush, pink lips, which Graves definitely needed to stop fantasizing about. 

“I still want to learn the spells. In case you get hurt, or I do and you’re not around.”

Graves’ eyes closed, and he shook his head, reaching to pull the paper back, before writing seven words that he meant with every fiber of his being.

 

_ That will never happen on my watch. _

 

He didn’t know how else to emphasize it, so he leaned down and kissed Credence’s temple, letting go of his hand in favor of petting over his neck, letting his fingers play with the hairs at the nape of his neck. His sharp bowlcut was growing out, perhaps aided by magic or merely his own willpower, no longer leaving him with so many harsh angles. 

He moved back from Credence before he could do something insanely stupid, like kiss him more properly, and cleared away the dinner dishes, before preparing to go to his room. Only the boy’s soft tones gave him pause, and he turned back to wave. It had become their universal signal for goodnight.

“Sleep well Father.”

Everytime he heard that, Graves hated himself more and more. The well of hatred inside him burst out in angry motions, as he ripped off his clothing just to mend it and send it flying into his closet, testing his magic to the limit with foolish spells, before not even bothering to summon sleep wear, just climbing into bed, and immediately giving in to the urge to touch himself. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep up the ruse. They’ve been playing house, father and son, for almost a week, fraying the very edges of his patience.

Of any man’s patience really, he liked to think.

Graves had never encountered Credence in anything short of modest attire, but the  _ way _ his clothing just doesn’t fit quite right only makes him want to touch it and fix it, or simply vanish it away. Neither option could stoke the flames inside him, not like that did.

His eyes fell shut and his jaw went slack when his first climax washed over him, his hand moved to grip the base and dragged roughly back down, milking himself completely. It was going to be a very long night. He knew that much.

 

* * *

There were jagged lines and huge gaps in Credence’s memory, but there were also very few things that stand out, and he clung to them with all the hope he could muster. Magic was real, his family was dead, he was alive, and he was a witch too.

His father cared for him, and seemed to be very rich, with a beautiful and sumptuous apartment, so much space and such nice furniture it made his head spin when he tended to get lost in thought, wandering around late at night, when he can’t sleep. It had become more and more often, because of his dreams, filled with horrible things and frightening images and sounds. The one sound he ached to hear and would rather dream of, was his father’s voice. He yearned to hear a good morning in reply to his own, or even just his name from the man’s lips.

His father was very strong and very brave, though he seemed to believe otherwise about himself, Credence knew better. He had done some research, he had seen the papers that the man brought to him. Percival Graves was a hero to New York, and if he could even have a piece of that, knowing they share the same name and blood was enough. Although, there was much more to it.

Sometimes he will catch the man staring at him, and not with any sort of look that comes off as inherently familial, more longing, and heated. Credence suspected it was merely his magic, or maybe the devil himself putting those sorts of thoughts into his head about his own father. It was worse than just being a witch, his soul had become seeped in wickedness.

Though his father does call himself a wizard, and said Credence and he were the same, he still only imagined the word witch to cover what they are. What they could be was something else entirely. He hoped, deep down, inside the black twisted remains of his soul, that he was wrong. That somehow, the man was mistaken. He found himself considering going to the kitchen to make himself some warm milk, as the best way to help get to sleep, not back to it, as he’d yet to find it, but as he passed his fathers room, he heard something. Noise of discomfort, of distress.

He panicked, knowing that his father had no real way to call for help, should he need it, powerful magical abilities or not.

Credence carefully tried the door, and upon finding it unlocked, pushed it open to step inside. He felt his stomach drop somewhere around his toes. 

His father was writhing around atop his bed, out of the sheets, and fully naked, with one hand gripping between his legs, over his cock, and the other braced on the headboard, knuckles white, as his hips shifted, and his back arched, Credence fought to move, to retreat, to  _ run _ .

He shouldn’t be witnessing such a thing, he ought to leave, quickly, before there was a chance to be noticed, but his eyes were locked onto the sheen of sweat over his father’s chest, and the way his cockhead was slicker with every pass of his hand, though very red at the tip. It was the most incredible thing he’d ever seen, and he could practically feel the hellfires at his back, breathing down his neck. 

For why else would he suddenly want to lick it, why was his mouth watering and his breath short in his chest?

Credence found himself paralyzed with arousal, not fear and as he watched, his father’s ministrations slowed, his hand relaxing against the bed overtop of his head, and he slumped down against the mattress, letting go of his cock, which lay still, but pulsed out several white drooling ropes onto his stomach.

Credence felt as if he’d run twenty blocks, though he was just panting for air, wondering why he couldn’t yet move, rooted to the spot, until he noticed that blue light was curling around his body, and his father’s eyes snapped open, catching him at once under the weight of his gaze.

“I’m sorry… I thought you were in pain…”

His skin tingled, and he stumbled backwards, suddenly free. 

Credence didn’t even think about, he just turned and ran. He didn’t slam his own bedroom door shut, but there was no need, he just jumped into his bed and pulled a pillow to his face, doing his best to muffle the sobs that shook his entire body.

He was disgusting. He was the worst son a father could ask for, or end up stuck with, as had happened in his case. Credence wondered if it was possible to die of shame, for surely that would be his cause of death. To his further mortification, he could feel that his own cock was hard between his legs, stirred to life from the sight of the man finding a blissful release in his room, where he thought he’d be safe, and have some privacy, only for Credence to come along and ruin it.

The shaking finally stopped, and he knew he’d soaked the pillowcase with his tears, so he rolled away, and let his arm fall over his eyes, as a few more ragged gasps crawled out of his throat. Moonlight was streaming into his room through the open drapes, and he decided there would be no way to sleep if he didn’t close them, so for that, he climbed out of bed.

A soft knocking on his door made him jump, and nearly stumble. It was his father, now dressed in a light blue bathrobe, and watching him with sadness in his eyes.

Disappointment, Credence suspected. He’d hoped for a son with better manners and potential than him.

There was nothing to be done but pray for mercy, so he swallowed thickly, and walked over to the man, to fall at his feet, not daring to touch him, not yet.

“Please, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to… watch you doing that. I sincerely thought you were having a nightmare… I’m-”

There was a hand in his hair, gentle and slow, carding through it, stroking over his scalp. He kept waiting for it to become painful, harsh, as he knew he deserved, but it didn’t.

His father carefully tilted his head back, up, so he could meet the man’s eyes, and he saw no anger there, only that the brown of his eyes had been swallowed by blackness, as the man’s fingers drifted down, curling along his jaw, a thumb dragged over his bottom lip. He didn’t know what was happening, but he also wasn’t sure what to ask, for one thing.

He imagined the paper and pencil in his mind, and there it was, formed on his palm, pencil perfectly sharpened atop the pad, and his father took it at once, scribbling fiercely. 

Credence could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears as he waited with bated breath for his judgement, for his condemnation.

The sound of the paper tearing from the pad startled him, and he accidentally bumped his cheek into the man’s knee, which was followed by a low gasp.

“Sorry.”

He pulled back instantly, and then realized his father was holding out the paper, it was almost a paragraph.

He read every word slowly and carefully to ensure he was not imagining any of them, and he blinked several times, but the same thing remained there before him.

 

_ The man  _ is  _ Mister Percival Graves. They knew each other before. He’s no more his father than anyone else he might have run into. They have an unexplained connection because they knew each other before the rainstorm. He is not sorry about what Credence saw, and if he could speak, he would have been saying his name. He loves him, not like a son. He wants to be able to say it. _

 

His hand shook so badly the words blurred on the paper, and he lowered it to find Mister Graves had knelt down in front of him, and was watching him, seemingly hoping for a miracle.

He dragged in a shaky breath, and then felt his legs give out, so he pitched forward, right into the man’s arms. It was not very far to go, but when he got pulled back to his feet, and then further, up, held close the Mister Graves’ strong broad chest, he found that they were not walking to Credence’s bed, no, the man was going out the door, and down the hall a step or two, to  _ his _ own bedroom.

Oh.

Oh god.

The last sentence on the page was a question that he didn’t know how to answer

Not until the man set him down on the bed, and moved back to stare at him with mild concern upon his handsome face, and Credence almost pounces, it’s the closest thing he can think to call it.

He was in Mister Graves’ arms, on his bed, in his room, and his lips were now pressed against the man’s, sloppy and wet and new. Strong arms tightened around his waist, slid up his back, and Mister Graves moaned into his mouth, as a shiver ran down his spine, as heat curled in his abdomen, headed for his groin.

His legs parted wantonly of their own accord, and the man stepped in between them, slowly leaning him back, so that he could be bracketed against the bed, with Mister Graves looming over him. He’s not frightened though, he doesn’t think he could ever be.

The man loved him. He wasn’t his father. So therefore, Credence could love him too. The way he really wanted to, but was far too scared to ever admit, even to himself.

“Mister Graves, please, can I touch you?”

He saw the man nod through half lidded eyes, and Credence immediately responded by slipping a hand underneath the man’s robe, whimpering at the feel of his bare skin, and how warm he was, how heavy he was breathing, all because of him. He needed to know something else too, and his hand moved steadily down, flicking open the knot of the tie, and baring the man’s waist and lower, so that Credence could then wrap his fingers around the man’s cock.

It was electric, even to him, so he knew Mister Graves must like it, even without the sound he made from the contact.

“You’re  _ so _ hard.”

It made no sense to him, Credence saw with his own two eyes how satisfying the man’s last orgasm must have been at his own hand, and yet, there he was, throbbing and hot against his palm.

“Mmm.”

Mister Graves hummed low in his throat, and then the man was at his neck, where he then licked and kissed the skin there, pulling a gasp from Credence, distracting him long enough to make him let go of the man’s cock, and suddenly pay a bit of attention to himself, as his sleepwear melted away, along with the man’s robe.

Credence found himself far too desperate to worry about shame, or shyness, and he swallowed hard, wondering what would happen next.

Mister Graves’ hand lingered on his face, cupping his cheek, before dragging down, making him tingle everywhere the man touched, as he stopped just before Credence’s hip bone, to palm his thigh, and squeeze gently.

“Will you touch me? Please?”

Mister Graves smiled at him, and he suspected if the man could laugh aloud, he would be. Instead, he ducked down and puts his mouth to Credence’s chest, which made him shudder and keen, before he then applied his tongue.

Credence’s trembling didn’t stop when Mister Graves reached his cock, it only worsened so much so he feared he may accidentally buck the man off the bed.

A strong arm pressed down across his hips, forcing him still and he could feel tears prick at his eyes, the instant the man’s mouth covered the head, and his tongue lapped over the wet slit, sparks exploded behind his eyelids as he squeezed them closed, pushing the tears down his cheeks.

“P-please…it feels so good… don’t stop Mister Graves…”

The man hummed into his skin and around his length, and a shudder wracked through his body, his hips tried to thrust up, stopped only by the man’s strong hold over him.

There was a dark urge inside him, a voice whispered that even if Mister Graves wasn’t Credence’s father, he could still be… something. 

What was it that those girls called their beaus?

Oh.   
Mister Graves took him deeper into his mouth, so that he could feel himself in the man’s throat, and it fell from his lips, unbidden, not quite an accident.

“Daddy!”

The man’s hand gripped his thigh so hard he knew he’d have bruises if he didn’t heal himself, and the pleasure coiled inside his belly instantly snapped, as his back arched and he came, he reached out for the man, to put a hand to Mister Graves’ dark hair, so very different from his own, streaked with silver and perfectly straight, where his would curl if it grew much further past his ears. 

When his heartbeat finally slowed down, the man crawled back up to kiss him again, and Credence moaned as he felt Mister Graves’ tongue dip into his mouth, letting him taste himself. “Are you, would you want me to…?”

He hadn’t a clue what he was asking for, but he  _ did _ know he could try to imitate what Mister Graves had done for him.

The man just smiled, and then shrugged, as if it was up to Credence entirely. 

Well then...

Credence pressed his palm flat to the man’s chest, guiding him to go onto his back, and he did so, pliant, moving easily, but with his eyes locked on his own the entire way. It made him shiver. 

“Daddy… is it okay if I call you that?”

Mister Graves’ eyes blinked, once, twice, and then he smiled in a way that made Credence’s spent cock twitch. He took that as a yes, so he leaned in for another kiss, and felt the man’s hands caressing down his back to cup over his backside, before squeezing, one side in each palm.

“Oh!”

He more squeaked than spoke, and Mister Graves’ chest shook with silent laughter, forcing him to break the kiss to push back and then frown, or attempt it, down at the man, before letting his eyes lower to the man’s cock.

He was going to try and put that in his mouth. God help him.

It was so thick around his fingers barely touched when he stroked over it, buying himself time, as he shuffled backwards and then collapsed atop the man’s legs.

Mister Graves hummed again, and Credence suspected he was trying to reassure him, to tell him to go slow, and not think so hard. That was nearly impossible.

He leaned in and gave it a slow lick, after all, on him, the move had felt amazing.

The man’s hips jerked once, and Credence was almost smacked in the face when he accidentally let go of Mister Graves’ cock.

“Oops. Sorry Daddy.”

The man let out a sigh that could have been impatience, but he wasn’t sure, so he leaned down again, and tried to take the full head into his mouth, suckling gently, and licking against the underside.

A hand was in his hair again, and that time it gripped a bit harder, but still not painful, not like he expected. Credence hummed himself, and the man’s hand shifted, before it felt like he was being pushed closer. He could relax enough, he thought.

The moment he felt the head of the man’s cock hit the back of his throat, tears were slipping down  his cheeks again, but merely from frustration with himself, not real pain. Mister Graves was steadily moaning, the sound making Credence just as aroused, so much that he was grinding against the sheets with every down stroke of his mouth on the man, and before he knew what had happened, his free hand was linked with the man’s other one, and warmth was spilling down his throat, as he felt the man’s cock pulsing over his tongue.

His own hips stilled so that he could focus on swallowing, but he was very tempted to start rutting forward again once he let Mister Graves’ cock slip out of his mouth.

“Was that good for you Daddy?”

A shock of heat zinged down his spine every time he used such wicked words, and Mister Graves’ slow nod only made him that much closer.

He barely blinked before he was being pinned to the bed, and the man was between his legs, grinding down over his cock with a calloused palm, making Credence’s jaw drop, as he groaned aloud, and the man’s lips found his neck, sucking and biting and licking a spot he knew would be sore in the morning.

He came again from just a rough press on his cock, not even a real stroke, and he was shivering through aftershocks when the man’s hand finally left him.

He felt very safe, and secure, embraced by Mister Graves as he was, held close and tight, when he rolled to the side, he kissed the man’s cheek and down to his mouth, 

“Thank you for saving me, Mister Graves.”

 

* * *

 

**end**


End file.
